Rogue (Real #4)(87)

I’m terribly amused by his jealousy as I sweep into the ballroom. Long white columns welcome us and I can already see the crowd inside, all of them curious about the CEO of the new King Yacht Corp—rumored to also be the head of one of the top Underground fighting circuits. He’s like some sexy JFK Jr. figure and suddenly, I’m his Carolyn . . .

I spot Pandora and Kyle by the champagne fountain, helping themselves to a new glass. They spot me almost at the same time. Kyle waves; Pandora smirks and lifts the glass in toast, her eyes shining warmly. The room’s only spot of color tonight, apparently, is me. Everyone is dressed in black and white, while I’m wearing red. “It’s a black-and-white gala?” I’d asked Greyson when we arrived.

His lips quirked. “It’s never black and white for you.”

Greyson rubs his hand up and down my back as he reaches me, and my pulse starts accelerating as I remember little glimpses of our past.

My name is Greyson, Melanie . . .

I close my eyes, savoring this memory. When I was in a coma, I didn’t remember anything, but when I came to, all my memories slammed me almost to the point I couldn’t peel apart one from the other.

I love my memories now. What a treasure to know who you are, who you love, what you did yesterday, what you hope for yourself for tomorrow. What a treasure to remember the day I met the man I love.

And I remember it—every bit of it.

When I finally open my eyes, I feel his gaze on me.

As if he’s waiting for something . . .

That’s when the canopy that makes an artificial ceiling high above our heads, white and elegant, bursts open and a mass of white, red, and black balloons starts raining down on us.

Squealing, I tip my head back and watch them fall on us, stretching out my arms so I can feel them bounce on my palms. It feels magical, special, unforgettable.

Some of my friends take the long, sleek feathers adorning the tables and use the tips to start popping the balloons. Greyson is happiest when I’m happy—I’ve noticed this. Now he watches me with a curl to his lips, leaning back with his legs spread apart and his arms crossed, watching as I join the fun and start popping balloons. The music starts up as most of the balloons have fallen on the dance floor, and as the band starts playing, people try dancing around them while others are making a game out of popping them with their feet.

I’m laughing and lifting my dress, digging the heels of my shoes into a balloon.

Pop!

Pop!

POP!

When I look up, he’s still watching me.

I sense his happiness like it’s mine.

The song “This is What It Feels like” by Armin van Buuren rocks around us, and I start dancing to the music in the middle of the room, feeling it run through me, and I watch as Greyson pulls out a chair and sits down, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, brilliant, narrowed eyes fixated on me as I dance by myself.

He fills his jacket perfectly. I see the muscular arms, the perfect triangle of his wide shoulders, narrow waist, and I want it all. That mouth that seems a little bit pinker than normal due to my kisses. Those hungry eyes. That beautiful man.

He watches me come over with a stare that glimmers with love, and I feel like there’s a fist gripping my stomach because I suddenly want these people to pop away like these balloons so it’s just us. Him and me. He smiles, and I smile back, a tingle deep in my belly.

Even before we met, he’d been watching me and I didn’t know it. I had something that belonged to him—to his father—and Greyson had become a shadow I never noticed, but boy, did he notice me. He likes watching me. So I let him watch his fill as I sway my way over, and when I stop a few feet away, he lifts his hand and crooks his finger at me.

I start up again, laughing when he grabs my waist and hauls me down on his knee. “Do you realize how f*cking beautiful you look tonight,” he whisper-growls into my neck, and in that dark suit, I’m Buttercup and he’s Westley who defeated the one with five fingers and now . . .we can be happy. We are happy.

He draws me closer to his chest, clearly savoring the feel of me, the scent of me. “You couldn’t be possibly any sexier, princess. Any f*cking sexier. I could watch you until you wear yourself out, but I need you to have energy for what I have planned.”

His sexy voice so close to my ear ripples through my body. I start kissing his hard jaw. “When?”

“When we get back to the apartment,” he promises, his voice tight with lust.

He brushes my hair back from my face, and tingles race from the roots of my hair to my toes. He’s all I breathe and see. All I want and need. His eyes, hazel green and fiery. His mouth. Lips that look soft and firm. A jolt runs through me when he caresses his hand along the length of my bare back, and my pulse skitters at the caress as he roughly adds, “I adore you. Treasure you. Cherish you. I think I’m damn well keeping you.”

My entire body responds. I feel so cherished. His girl. Me. Me. Me. “Yes. Keep me. Love me. Ride me hard tonight, Grey. As hard as you ride your men,” I tease.

His men respect him, are in awe of him, maybe a little in fear of him too.

But I’m not afraid of him.

He may make men twice my size tremble, but not me. Okay, yes. He makes me tremble. He makes me tremble in love. In lust. But never in fear. Because I know that he’d never hurt me. In fact, he’s the only one who can truly make me feel safe.